I wanted the drink so I drank.
I let it in through the front door,
my tongue the welcome mat,
my throat, the foyer
then down the hatch.

Once it settled in for a spell
we climbed the stairs to the attic.
Drafty up there,
not a lot of insulation.

I repeated this process
until I got sleepy
and dreamt of finches
their colors, their sounds,
appearing through holes
coming in gopher-like
up and out.

They approached with apprehension
then more fervor
taking up residence
on my back,
in the crook of my neck,
as I laid on the floor,
paralyzed,
like one does.

Morning came
and I spied the mostly empty bottle,
a ghost or a breeze or a song rolling it
gently to and fro,
on its side
aiming for the doorway
considering its escape
uncorked
breathing.